Saturday, October 9, 2010

Back 2 Skool

Oh goodness me. Hello everyone. Remember me? I don't blame you if you've forgotten. I've been a terrible blog host. Bloghost. Blow Ghost?

(normally at this point I'd do an image search and put something silly here. But I'm really just too afraid.)

So yeah. Don't worry I have been writing. Just not in this format. And not anything that you're likely to see incredibly soon. So I admit it's small consolation to you, the blogaudience, but I've not been simply sitting idle.

It was Oscar Wilde who said: "Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught."

For example, Mr Wilde learned that serving two years of hard labor for gross indecency (read: being super gay) really really sucks. I think I could have been taught that. I think I could just guess it, actually.

That being said, I'm finding my classes and professors remarkably good at getting us to learn things ourselves. I'm writing a full length play and a full length screenplay for this semester as well as some other shorter pieces that who knows? Maybe
you'll get to see sometime.

However, the best part has got to be my fellow students. I'm in a class of 25 people, and they and their work collectively blow my mind. Even setting aside that they increase my feelings of self worth by adding another 24 people to my facebook friends, they are all incredibly talented writers.

"Sweet! 439 friends! Who's the loser now, Mom?"

In class it sometimes gets to the point where I guess how long it will take for the admissions department to realize their horrible, horrible mistake and throw me back to the dark recesses of the internet where I belong.

But then I remind myself I'm a genius and all is right with the world again.

Oh Dr. Doom. You get me.

The transition from working stiff to insufferable grad student has been a significant one. First off I had to get used to the idea that "weekend clothes" don't really exist anymore. Dress codes are right out. Jeans are the order of the day, along with anything vaguely shirt-shaped to protect my classmates' eyes from the blinding paleness of my torso.

Also, classes are at different times each day. Establishing a routine in the midst of this chaos continues to be a challenge for me. If I don't have to be at work at 9:00 AM, do ANY rules apply to me?

"If there is no pain, is there then no law?" Anyone, anyone?

Clearly the answer must be no.

Everything is super different. A few times I found myself on a strangely spacious train wondering if a plague had struck NYC while I was busy watching three seasons of Mad Men. Then I realized that I was actually commuting two hours after rush hour. All those people weren't dead, they were just at work, wishing they were dead.

"A plague would be so awesome right now."

Laundry is another thing that becomes way easier with fewer people around. Just me and Sophia, the very nice lady who runs the laundromat and sounds exactly like Carol Kane in the Princess Bride.

Also, in a personal victory for me, my laundromat now tunes its TV to Jeopardy instead of Entertainment Tonight or TMZ or whatever the Hell that awfulness was.

So basically good times and smooth sailing all around. I'm sorry I haven't updated more, and will indeed make an effort to do this some more.

At the very very least, we have Halloween to look forward to. I hope all you folks are busy planning out your costumes, because I'll be anxious to see and judge them.

Peace out folks,


Thursday, August 19, 2010

Back in the Saddle.


So another month has passed with limited blog action. I would have liked to do a little more, but I've had a whole bunch of stuff going on, so bleh.

In Rev news, I will be leaving my job shortly to begin a full time program of study to get my MFA in Dramatic Writing. Classes start September 7th, so I figured I should reacquaint my fingers with the sensation of a keyboard.

It's nice. Feels clicky.

This blog has always been a handy way to forcefully get my creativity juices flowing again. So here I am, attempting to work out the muscles of my brain... my brain muscles.... my... Brussels.

This might be harder than I thought.

Let's see... what has happened in the past month? Hoo boy. I guess I'll skim over a lot of stuff that doesn't lend itself to comedy and go straight to I went on Vacation!

Kyle and Jesse and I got a bunch of folks together and rented a house on the beach in North Carolina.

There was much dance partying and Silly Bandz to be had.

For more vacation fun with Kyle and Jesse, check out last summer's hiking blog!

But it was a blast. Here's the house we got:

It was across the street from this beach:

It was pretty.

The whole setup was located on Topsail Island, NC. The place has some very colorful local history, as it gets its name from pirate ships lurking in the sound behind the island. Over the trees, only the topsails were visible, and if you didn't spot them quick enough... well I don't have to tell you what pirates do.

That's right. They make you black out and piss yourself.

Topsail Island is also rumored to be where Blackbeard hid a large amount of treasure, which was probably due to Blackbeard having a keen interest in 20th and 21st Century tourism revenue.

"Yarrr... the beaches are lovely this time of year, and buy some tshirts for the kiddies. Yarr!"

It is also the location of a place called "The Gold Hole." They say it's a spot where treasure hunters dug up the beach to try and find the remains of a ship. I say it's an incredibly lazy nickname for a treasure spot, or a delightful new prison nickname for Bernie Madoff.

I tried to feel sorry for him, but it didn't work.

The place was pretty sweet, and the water incredibly warm. Typically, the beach combines the powers of two of my greatest enemies: the Sun and the Ocean.

This time, we all got along pretty well. I had fun boogie boarding and swimming, and only got sunburned a lot! Sharks were a concern of mine, along with every other thing that lives in the Ocean, but I sucked it up.

See? That's a picture of Kyle and I boogie boarding at perfect shark attack depth. According to Wikipedia: The United States has had more reported shark attacks than any other country, with a total of 1,049 attacks (49 fatal) during the past 339 years (1670-2009)


Lousy terrorist.

Or it's because many other countries don't have reliable methods of reporting shark attacks, I don't know. I'm not paid to think.

Of course, the first thing we had to do when we got into town was to go grocery shopping.

Man, I hope we got enough milk. I need my Golden Grahams in the morning.

But we actually ate very well that week. We all took turns pairing up and making dinners for the rest. Kyle and I made lasagna and salad:


I also got a chance to fly my most pimpingest kite:

Aww yeah. Fokker Triplane, bitches!

I did fly it higher than that, but at a certain altitude, photo ops become ridiculous. Like this:

Oh, that's actually pretty cool. Nevermind.

The regular kind of vacation hijinx were had. We played board games, did a lot of wii sports, and oh yeah, We did my hair up like the Jersey Shore.

Yup, that happened. No use pretending it didn't.

I think the general consensus is that I looked like the love child of Eddie Munster and Syndrome, from the Incredibles.

With just an extra dollop of douchebag on the side. That look was quickly disposed of.

We also went to a sea turtle hospital, but they didn't allow us to take pictures... so trust me. I saw sea turtles.

So yeah, it was a great week of fun in the (burning bastard) sun. Thank you to Jesse and Kyle and everyone else there for a fantastic time. I'd name you all, but some people don't like being put into blogs without being told, so I generally try to keep that to a minimum.

That's about all for now folks, I really mean it this time when I say I hope to update this thing more frequently. I guess we'll see how my school workload plays out.

I'll leave you to look at this pretty picture of a sunset:


Peace out folks,


Wednesday, July 7, 2010

A Question of Etiquette.

Ok, ok. So it's been a month and change since I've updated this. A lot of crap has happened, I get it. If you need an excuse, I'm going to have to go with me being in mourning over the end of 24.

My God, what a stupid season.

My sadness naturally progressed to anger over the following points:

1) Set in NYC, clearly not filmed in NYC.

2) What were those stupid 'drones' everyone was talking about? If you have to make up something like that to make the story work, the problem is the story.

3) They did NOT resurrect Curtis.


But anyway, what I really want to talk about is what happened to me yesterday at the gym. Yes, I was at the gym. On a bike.

Yeah, that's about right.

My question (mentioned in the title) is this: how bad are you allowed to smell at the gym?

Not for myself, of course.

Anyway, let me set up the scene for you. I was there, peddling away...

Sorry, PEDALING away.

I had my headphones on and passed the first ten minutes listening to my ipod. Then tragedy struck. I was grooving to the soundtrack of Wicked. It was just at the beginning of 'Loathing.'

And my battery died.

"That is so gay," I thought.

I then spent the next 4-5 minutes figuring out all the implications of that comment, particularly as it related to working out to showtunes.

Long story short, I'd been on the bike for some time when a dude came over and took the bike that was unoccupied next to me. My God. I mean, my God.

Full disclosure: I was on that bike for a full 18 minutes, wearing gym clothes that I had not washed since my last workout. How is it possible that this man, beginning his exercise, was several orders of magnitude more putrid than I was?

He seemed to be a well groomed gentleman. He started reading a book from the NYU library. But he stank.

I mean like, homeless stank. The kind of stink that says "Yes, I intentionally soiled myself so you wouldn't touch my bags as I sleep on the subway."

He smelled like the kind of guy Lady Gaga would stab in an alley before sex to help her get an erection.

The funniest thing about Lady Gaga is how long ago the joke stopped being on us.

And the odd thing is, he didn't look like a smelly guy. He exhibited none of the signs that would set off the aroma alarms. He wasn't super sweaty, or obese, or gangrenous, or undead.

My instinct was to pedal faster in a delirious attempt to get away from him. It wasn't working. How could I not escape? I had an 18 minute head start and he was traveling on rolling hills.

My sanity kicked back in several seconds later. I tried to wait it out. Just ignore it. I couldn't. Without music, my mind kept wandering back to it.

I wondered how much money I would have to spend at the grocery store to figure out just which brand of vinegar he smelled like the most.

I'm betting on Heinz Garlic Wine, by the way.

I tried to gain more clues.

The book he was reading was Adam's Tongue, by Derek Bickerton. I looked it up, and it's apparently about the origins of human language. Some pretty decent stuff. Not what I would expect from someone of his stench.

It's certainly not Tinfoil Hats Quarterly or Deodorant: The Silent Killer.

Perhaps he's one of those hipster types I hate so much. Maybe he's intentionally been cultivating this reek to challenge society. He did have a beard, come to think of it... and was wearing a thermal undershirt sort of thing, rather than any kind of contemporary synthetic exercise apparel.

Though I'm also not convinced that he had removed said shirt in the past week. Ok, so NYU $tudent probably is being smelly on purpose or he has some sort of olfactory malfunction.

Not the same thing as an Old Factory Malfunction.

So, mystery man at the gym, we're left at an impasse. If you were genuinely unaware of how the world perceives you as a walking collection of swamp gases and cat sick, then I feel sorry for you. If you do it on purpose to make people think about how they live their lives and why, then mission accomplished. It really did make me think about why I shower. And it turns out I feel pretty good about it.


Oh, and soap too. Soap rules.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Load "*",8,1

Ugh, I'm bad at updating. I know that's the constant call of the casual blogger, but still. May 9th was the last one. And I've done stuff, too. I've seen cool things and have stuff to talk about, but nah. Just didn't feel like it, or want to devote the time.

Well all that's changed now. Now I want to talk about something that I discovered, or rather rediscovered about two weeks ago.

Like many people on the internet, I enjoy video games, and have fond memories of my early gaming experiences. Unlike many people, I never owned a Nintendo.

When it came time for me to learn what video games were, my family turned to the Commodore 64.

64K Memory? Holy Goat Balls!

It's good that we can laugh at the past and the stupid, stupid people that lived there. Certainly future generations won't look back and laugh at our hopelessly obsolete "human race."

"Ha! Organic Neurons. No, I think they're cute."

But I'm afraid I've gone off on another apocalyptic tangent. The Commodore 64 was remarkably versatile and we had a ton of games for it. The best ones included the Epyx series of Olympic games. Summer Games, Winter Games, California Games were all pretty badass.

Maniac Mansion was another fantastic game. However, we couldn't save the game and my brothers and I once got 7-8 hours of playing time into the game when I discovered one of the only ways to get a main character killed. They weren't pleased.

Then there were the arcade classics like Tapper, Spy Hunter, Centipede, BurgerTime. And then there's one game that is tougher to forget. Super Mario Brothers.

We all have embarrassing moments from our childhood. I, like most comedy writers, remember every single one of mine. One day I was talking to some friends in school about Super Mario Brothers. The dialogue went something like this:

Me: Super Mario Brothers is so cool!

Others: Yeah! Ghostbusters! Ninja Turtles!

Other: Mario is tubular! Also, slapwraps!

Me: Yeah, it's radical! You get a mushroom then you start breaking the bricks!

Other: Totally. And then the fireflower lets you shoot fireballs and you kill all the goombas!

Me: Yeah! And then you get the pineapple and your fireballs shoot down the birds that are flying around!

(Record Scratch)

I'll never forget the look of combined confusion and pity that they gave me. We may have only been in first grade, but I was on the receiving end of the "Rev is either crazy or completely full of shit" glance.

My friends tried to set me straight by guaranteeing that neither of those things existed, but I played the game, dammit. I knew for a fact that the end boss was a giant Eagle, not some crazy fire-breathing turtle.

I forget how the conversation ended, but it probably just switched to the topic of how awesome pizza is.

The consensus: Very.

I put the ugly episode out of my mind until recently. Then a random spark just happened to fire up the proper net of brain cells and a question hit me:

What the Eph was I playing?

A few seconds after that hit me, I recalled the fact that from my innocent first-grader self I have evolved into a brilliant and hilarious interzone God. I have all the information of the world wide web at my fingertips, and no question is too stupid to keep me from Googling it during work hours.

I set about to uncover this mystery. What do I remember of the game from so long ago? The label was handwritten on the 5.25 inch disk with felt tipped pen... sounds like an illegal copy to me.

Ok, pay attention nitwits. Using this information I craft a Google search:

Super Mario Brothers bootleg Commodore 64

Would that be enough information?

Yes. Yes it would.

I quickly found that the lie inside my brain was a bastardization of a bastardization. The original rip off was called the Great Giana Sisters.

Call me crazy, but I actually prefer her to a fat Italian plumber.
Also, feel free to leave your own One-eyed monster joke in the comments section!

This opportunistic dupe, produced by Rainbow Arts, enjoyed some popularity before Nintendo actually noticed them and proceeded to sue their balls off.

Why such a reaction? Surely the games aren't that similar, right? We'll get to that.

Anyway, after the suing, someone out in the world decided that The Great Giana Sisters hadn't gone far enough. They proceeded to do a lovely hack job that replaced some of the graphics in the game with more familiar versions. Here's an example of what he (and then I) ended up with.

Warning - I take no responsibility for the soundtrack of this. Truth be told, I haven't even listened to it. My computer is muted right now. I'm on a schedule.


So I'm neither crazy nor a liar. Pretty convincing gameplay, all told. Add to that the fact that our C64 was hooked up to a black and white television for the majority of its life, and I'd say the mistake was pretty understandable.

So take that, jeering first graders. I wasn't some attention-starved liar, like that one kid who said he knew where his dad hid his Playboys and that you could "see everything."

My only crime was wanting to believe in a world where my Commodore 64 was every bit the game machine that the NES was. And if that's wrong, then I don't want to be right.

Rev out.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Happy Mother's Day.

Hello again,

The most wonderful thing happened the other day. It may not be uncommon, or rare, but it had never happened to me before, and it felt wonderful.

This, by contrast, is wonderful felt.

Now for all of you who have your minds in the gutter, good work. But sorry to disappoint, I got a massage. The real kind, not the kind those women outside the hotel were offering me when I was in Beijing.

Funny story: The elderly mother of a man in that tour group ordered a massage from the hotel, and was really puzzled as to why the woman who showed up was wearing such a fancy dress and didn't have any massage supplies with her.

"So, I'm confused... do you do shiatsu or hot stone, or what?"

oh, prostitutes.

Regardless of labels, in my personal experience it was the best experience I've had with someone I paid to touch me. Top five, at least.

That's not to say I wasn't nervous going into it. I actually got this as a sort of congratulatory gift for my grad school acceptance. Left to my own devices I have proven to be really fantastic at not scheduling massages for myself. So I didn't really know what to do.

I gchatted a friend and reader of this blog for some advice. She's an aspiring massage therapist (AMT), so figured she would have some valuable input. I wanted to know about some etiquette. I am going to paraphrase some of this conversation.

Me: They're not going to try to talk to me, are they?

AMT: Well, it depends. Most will ask a few questions at the beginning, to get a sense of any injuries or places that you want them to focus, and then really it's best for both parties to keep quiet and let them focus.

Me: Cool. Flatulence. Apologize, or ignore it?

AMT: Eh, either way... I could tell you some stories that are much grosser than that, but I won't.

Me: Oh thank God. I'm at work anyway. What about eye contact? Can I demand they not make eye contact with me?

AMT: Is that typically a problem?

Me: I sometimes feel threatened by eye contact. Like a gorilla. Like a massive, proud, savage silverback.

AMT: Ok... you'll be facing either the floor or the ceiling for the whole thing. I don't imagine eye contact will be an issue.

Me: What about Happy Endings?

AMT: Oh jesus.

Me: Precisely. How does one request one? Is there a hand signal involved? Would it show up on my credit card statement?

AMT: Rev, I have a lot of stuff to do...

Me: Don't get me wrong, I don't want one. Gross! But if there's a hand signal involved I want to make sure I don't accidentally make it.

AMT: I don't know. I work at a reputable, legal place.

Me: I get it. You can't tell me. Trade secret, huh? I'll guess and then you just type Y or N.

AMT: I'm going now. Goodbye.

Me: So there's this one gesture my Mom makes when she's talking to a telemarketer. Is that it?

AMT: autoresponse from AMT: note to self: stop reading Rev's blog.

Ok, so I embellished a little. But I did feel more comfortable going into the massage. I politely requested my masseuse don the gorilla glasses I brought from home.

I bought a gross of them last month. Also useful for walking through the park during the sunbathing months.

I told the masseuse about my shin pain and the stiff neck I'd had that weekend. Then she left, I disrobed and slipped under the blanket, facing down. What I assume was the same person I had just spoken to came back in and started the massage.

I just now thought of how simple it would have been to switch masseuses on me. If that had occurred to me then I probably wouldn't have been able to relax as much as I did. What if it was some huge hairy dude? What if he wasn't wearing the gorilla glasses? Did he know about my tender shins?

Turns out it was the same person, as most of the time I'm convinced there's an evil conspiracy against me, it turns out that they're really good at covering their tracks.

My life is sort of like a Robert Ludlum novel, except that nothing ever really happens, so it's exactly like a Robert Ludlum novel.

The story of a man and his forbidden love for a gondola.

I kid, I kid. The Bourne Identity is worth reading.

So I won't go into all the details. Suffice to say that the massage was fantastic, I no longer had a stiff neck and for two hours afterwards I felt like I was floating down the sidewalk, even when I wasn't.

I highly recommend getting one for yourself, they're pretty great.

Ok folks that's all for now, I'm going to go for a run on my path to Boilermaker 2010.

Happy Mother's Day, everybody!


Monday, April 26, 2010

What up?

Hello. Once again it's been over two weeks without an update on this site. And then some time before that, because the last one was just a video and you didn't have the opportunity to bask in my genius wordplay.

This is my writing outfit.

So here I am to correct my lazy, lazy oversight and to try and kickstart my stagnant brain into making up stuff again. So I guess we'll rewind to Easter, because hey, you're not sick of that yet, right?

We've seen the "what" of the Easter Parade, but we haven't delved into the "how" or "why." I'll get into the "how" a little bit here. If you really need a "why" then I don't think I can explain it properly, but someday you might come around. I'll pray for you.

to Saints Punch and Judy.

So the first order of business in creating my Easter hat was to get an idea. Last year I had my Thomas the Tank Engine Hat which, despite causing horrible neck pain, was a great success. So I had become enamored of hats with some sort of powered movement. I had theorized a hat based upon a cuckoo clock last Spring.

Bright colors, quilt shop theme, what's not to love?

That dream died after a small amount of research revealed that cuckoo clocks are really, really expensive.

It was actually during the summer that inspiration struck for this year. Just before our famed expedition to the summit of Mount Marcy, I was staying at the Camping's house in the guest room. Another frequent occupant of that room is Kyle's young nephew, so there was a nice assortment of auxiliary toys for when he visits.

Among them was a car chase/ramp stairs combo toy that I found to be crazily hypnotic.

Much like infamous Spider-Man villain The Hypno-Hustler. I wish I were making that up.

The cars went up the stairs, down the ramp and started all over again. I then realized I was having a lot of fun, and not interacting with this toy at all. In fact, playing with the cars is only disruptive to the process.

"Perfect." I thought.

Several weeks before Easter I remarkably remembered this incident and set to the internet to get one. I couldn't find the cars, but found both dalmation and penguin-themed variations. I chose penguins, because the set was more colorful and penguins effing rock.

Rock Penguin. Ok fine, Rockhopper Penguin.

I shopped around and ordered one on

I've yet to rate that transaction as the set I got did not match the picture, and was clearly some sort of unlicensed knock-off, judging from the engrish descriptions on the side of the box.

I put it together to test it out and was rewarded with an ear-splittingly painful rendition of 'Entrance of the Gladiators.'

Fun Fact! That's the title of the circus music running through your head every time you have that nightmare of a clown hiding in the shadows of your bedroom at 4:00 AM.

Something would have to be done about that. I busted out my toolbox and dismantled the casing of the stairs part. After some deliberation and online consulting with Honus, I determined that I could probably disconnect the speaker without losing power to the motor.

I just had to cut the right wire...

"Oh come on, it's a stupid toy"

I took a deep breath and pulled the [insert your favorite color here, seriously, it doesn't make any difference at all to the narrative] wire.

Success! The motor worked, the speaker didn't, and I added 'Electrical Engineer' to my resume.

I then stuck everything back together and realized I didn't have a hat to put it on. I need to make more lists.

A trip to 23rd street and its myriad thrift shops soon fixed that. Inside Goodwill I spotted a hat at considerable distance across the store. I impatiently rushed through racks of donated clothing items and brushed by other shoppers to get to the hat before someone else snatched it up. Only when I closed my hands on it did I let myself recognize the ridiculousness of my logic.

"This is the tallest straw cowboy hat I've ever seen. Even its owner didn't want it. It's probably been here for at least a year. I am the only person on Earth that wants to buy this hat."

Ten seconds prior it was "Oh my God, everyone in this store is five seconds away from looking up and realizing they cannot live without that precious straw diamond in the rough."

So I got it home, wood glued the Hell out of it, cut a strip in the top and crazy glued the stairs in place.

"Don't worry, normal people do things like this sometimes, right?"

It was then time for the decoration. Subastar had chosen a pinwheel theme for hers, going for the eye-catching movement without the need for an internalized power source. It's a smart move. We stocked up on discounted merchandise at K-Mart and Party City.

Here's the (now) traditional workshop photo:

Not so bad.

I also used a two inch corner brace on the inside forepart of the hat to take some of the weight of the stairs off the crazy glue. I used craft glue on the rest of the decor, substituting ducks for penguins around the base, purely because I couldn't find any reasonably priced penguins that would do the trick in the time frame I had.

Front view.

The crystal egg actually came with the bunny that Subastar fixed to the side of her hat. It was in the discard pile when I was looking for something to do with the duck's flailing wings. It originally contained jellybeans but I subbed a few plastic eggs and am pleased with the turnout. I also superglued my fingers together more than once. Twice, to be precise. Subastar saved the day with a recently purchased bottle of nail polish remover.

The bunny in question.

Wearing it proved to be just as tricky as last year, if much lighter and less painful. I must profusely thank Subastar for her patience and understanding in talking me through stalled penguins and head tilting procedures, all the while dealing with an apparently suicidal blue penguin who leaped from the slide no fewer than three times.


Ah yes, the jacket. I got just as many (if not more) compliments on the jacket than I did on my hat. It was a crowd pleaser. A man who was making balloon animals and flowers ran across the street to ask me where I bought it. Many other people asked me the same thing. I'm sure many of you at home are wondering it too. To prevent rioting and frustrating Google searches which will only lead you dead ends and Andrew Lloyd Weber musicals, I must share the bad news.

This is vintage, and probably custom-made. You can't get one like it. It is unique and therefore priceless. Perhaps someday when I'm nearing retirement I'll put it up on ebay, and get enough money to keep me comfortable in my old age and keep the Soylent Green collectors away as long as possible.

Until then you can enjoy it vicariously through my Easter parade photos and other incredibly rare occasions when it would be appropriate. Dr. Rev is quick to suggest Gay Pride Parades, and most of you were thinking it. Hilarious, but I think I'll stick to Easter.

Here's a candid shot I found on flickr.

A few people recognized me as the Thomas the Tank Engine guy from last year, so I guess I'm becoming something of an Easter Parade celebrity. Soon I hope to eclipse the pathetic people who have the giant hats that they have to hold in place with their hands.

There. I said it. You're pathetic. You know who you are. I'm not even posting pictures of you.

Oh yeah, we colored eggs too!

I like the pictures on the splash guards we used.

All right, no more Easter. That's my report and I'll move on in the next entry. All sorts of things have happened since then. I've gotten a massage and watched a championship Cricket match! Weird!

I'll try not to wait too long before the next update, but it's Springtime, I should be outside anyway.

Bye babies,